Valentine's Day Bet
by Starling Siren
Summary: SLASH (male/male romance). No graphic content. Neville Longbottom loses a bet and has to ask someone to a dance. COMPLETE.


**Title: **Valentine's Day Bet  
**Author: **Starling Siren  
**Email: **starlingsiren@yahoo.com  
**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
**Category: **Humor / Angst  
**Rating: **PG-13  
**Pairing: **Neville Longbottom / Blaise Zabini  
**Notes: **This fic is part of the 'Gardeners Delight' Neville Fuh-Q-Fest ().  
**Challenge: **#72. Neville loses a bet, and has to ask someone to a dance, so that everyone can have a good laugh when he's hexed into oblivion. But what happens when the boy *accepts* Neville's invitation? (Carly)  
**Warnings: **SLASH (male/male romance).

* * *

"You will just have to do it," Hermione told him unsympathetically. "And next time, Neville, think before you act. You know Seamus has never lost a bet yet."

Neville returned to his dorm room even more miserable than before. It wasn't that Hermione wasn't right; as always she was. He had just thought that she wouldn't be cruel about it, at least; even if she didn't agree to help him. But she was just like the others. Probably looking forward to a good laugh at his expense.

Neville closed the curtains around his bed and buried his face in his pillow. It was dinner time so no one would disturb him, and he could have a good cry without anyone being the wiser.

Three days. He had three days before the big Valentine's Day dance, and in that time he had to ask one of the Slytherins to be his date.

Neville wriggled on his bed, wondering why the tears wouldn't come. Finally he flopped over on his back and stared at the ceiling.

The least that was likely to happen is he'd be cursed into the next week. But that wasn't what Neville was upset about.

Everyone knew that he had no chance of going to the dance. Only those who could procure dates would be allowed in. The rest would be sitting in their dorm rooms.

Neville would be sitting alone. Every Gryffindor from third year to seventh year already had a date lined up.

It had just been a stupid little bet. The previous day, Seamus had run into the common room, claiming that he'd heard Snape planned to let the sixth years make chocolate biscuits instead of the wart-reducing potion they were studying.

Everyone had laughed at him. But as ridiculous as Seamus' story was, no one had been stupid enough to bet against him.

Except Neville.

Neville hadn't been able to choke down even one of the jelly-filled chocolate biscuits, which they had made on special request from Dumbledore, and with much grumbling and glaring from Snape. Apparently, Dumbledore liked to take homemade snacks to Ministry meetings, and this time he chose to share his little hobby with the rest of the school. Maybe next year there would be a culinary club at Hogwarts.

If Neville lived that long, he might join it.

He didn't know what he had expected Seamus to do to him, but when Seamus had smirked and cocked his head and said "You don't have a date to the dance yet, do you Neville?" Neville had known he was in trouble.

And now he had three days to humiliate himself in front of the entire school, and most likely be hexed in the process.

All so his so-called friends could have a good laugh.

At some point before the others returned, Neville fell asleep, and thus was spared any further torment that night.

He awoke early the following morning. The sky outside was just turning gray over the horizon.

Neville got up. He wanted to shower and get dressed before any of the others; then maybe he could hide out until breakfast. The less he saw of his friends, the better off he would be. Why give them an open target?

The water was ice cold. Or maybe it was just Neville's luck to pick a shower that wasn't working properly. At least he was wide-awake by the time he slipped through the portrait hole and down the stairs.

The only place he found to hide was a broom closet on the fourth floor. He sat down and waited. It wasn't long before he heard the sound of feet marching down the staircase.

But instead of leaving his hiding place, Neville slumped against the wall and sighed heavily. It wouldn't hurt him to miss another meal.

The bell rang all too soon, signifying the start of the first class. Neville left the closet and made it to the Charms classroom just in time.

"Psst, Neville!" Ron hissed at him. "Where were you?"

Neville shook his head, declining to answer. Ron glared at him.

Morning classes seemed to last forever that day. Lunch was even worse. Everyone kept looking at him, waiting for him to act.

"When are you going to do it, Neville?" Seamus asked, a toothy grin on his face.

"Later," Neville said, pushing past him and out of the Hall.

His final class that day was Potions. Double Potions with Slytherins, to be precise.

Neville was the first in the classroom, and chose a seat in the back. Sometimes Snape made him sit up front, where he could keep an eye on him, but today they would not be brewing, only preparing ingredients.

One by one the other students filed in. Neville kept his eyes on the door, and looked each Slytherin over as they came in.

Maybe he could ask a girl.

Tracey Davis? No, she knew more curses than any of the others.

Millicent Bulstrode? She was twice Neville's size!

Pansy Parkinson? Draco Malfoy would hex him to within an inch of his life.

Besides, everyone knew Neville didn't go for girls. They wouldn't let him get away with it.

Neville scanned the faces of the Slytherin boys.

Draco Malfoy, Vincent Crabbe, and Gregory Goyle; he eliminated them straight away.

That left two.

He didn't know the name of the boy with the square face that strongly reminded him of a bulldog. What he did know was that the boy was a bully; even to younger members of his own House.

That left one.

Blaise Zabini was sitting in one of the front seats. Neville had been too busy looking at the others to see him come in, and now he couldn't see anything but the back of Blaise's head from where he sat. He tried to remember anything he could about the boy, but because he always kept his eyes averted when around the Slytherins, nothing came to mind. He realized that he wouldn't even recognize the boy if he met him in the hallway, and that was after six years of having a joint class at least twice a month.

It didn't matter, really. Any one of those boys knew more curses than Neville would ever know how to defend himself against. And any one of them would be only too glad to use them on Neville.

Blaise Zabini it was.

Having made his decision, Neville tried to focus on the rest of the Potions class. It wasn't too bad; Snape ignored him for the most part, but that day Neville couldn't be grateful. That day he would have given anything for Potions to drag on as long as it always did. Instead, time seemed to speed up.

He stayed in his seat when the others left the classroom, pretending that Snape had told him to remain. He watched out of the corner of his eyes as the Slytherin boys, who were never in as much hurry to leave the classroom as the Gryffindors, trickled out into the hall.

As though as a sign to Neville, Blaise Zabini remained in the classroom. Neville watched as the boy got out of his seat, and with his back still to Neville, walked up to Snape's desk.

Neville couldn't hear what they were saying. He quietly left his seat and tiptoed into the corridor outside. There he waited.

It seemed an eternity before he heard footsteps approaching, but suddenly Blaise Zabini came through the doorway. He was walking fast, and only just managed to keep himself from plowing right into Neville. A frown instantly appeared on his face.

Neville was frozen in shock, staring at the boy in front of him speechlessly. Now that the moment had come, all he wanted to do was to turn and run.

Blaise shifted his heavy book bag to his other arm. "Excuse me," he said brusquely, attempting to go around Neville.

"Oh, sorry!" Neville said, suddenly realizing that he had been ogling the boy like a fool. He stepped aside.

His heart hammered. Another moment and Blaise would walk past him, and the opportunity would be lost.

"Wait!" he said, just as Blaise took his first step.

Blaise froze, frowning again and looking at Neville with some annoyance. "What is it?"

Neville took a deep breath and forced the words out. "Will you go to the dance with me?"

Blaise stared at him, his expression not changing.

Suddenly he laughed; a short, harsh sound.

"Is this a joke?"

Neville shook his head, forcing himself to remain in place. Whatever happened next; he wouldn't run from it. Running never did any good anyway.

Blaise continued to stare at him, and to Neville's bewilderment made no effort to reach for the wand sticking out of his front pocket.

Both boys jumped when Snape stalked in his typical fashion out of the classroom.

"And what, pray tell, is going on here?" he demanded, finding them in his way.

When neither of them answered, he narrowed his eyes. "I don't believe you belong here, Mr. Longbottom. Move along. Zabini, return to the common room at once."

"Yes, Professor Snape," Blaise replied calmly, turning on his heel. Over his shoulder, he said, "Longbottom, ask me again after dinner; I will have an answer for you then." With these words he disappeared around the corner.

"Well?" Snape asked coldly.

Neville had been staring after Blaise. Now he shook himself out of his trance.

"Yes, Sir," he said, forcing his feet to propel him toward the dungeon stairs.

"Ten points, Mr. Longbottom," Snape called after him, almost as an afterthought.

Neville barely heard him.

His breath came raggedly, and the stairs seemed to never end. He thought he would never reach the common room.

"Did you do it?" Seamus asked excitedly as Neville practically fell through the portrait hole. "Why did you wait until we'd all left?"

"No," Neville said, anger rising in his voice. "I didn't do it."

Which was the truth, from his point of view. The worst was still to come, later that night.

"Oh," Seamus said, his face falling. The other Gryffindors looked equally disappointed.

"Well, when are you going to do it, then?" Dean demanded.

"After dinner, all right!" Neville blurted out, and ran for the staircase leading to the dormitory.

He hid there for the next two hours, grateful that no one came up to look for him.

Time passed all too quickly, and soon enough a yell came from downstairs, reminding him that he wouldn't want to miss dinner.

Neville had never been less hungry in his life. The food in front of him could just as well have been made out of cardboard.

He had his back to the Slytherin table, so he could not look for Blaise. Maybe that was best. As it was, his panic grew with each minute that passed.

Was it his imagination, or were the Slytherins especially loud and boisterous that night?

The plates disappeared, taking with them Neville's untouched food.

"Are you going to do it?" Seamus asked, poking him in the side.

Without replying, Neville got up and began to weave through the crowd of students toward the Slytherin table.

He spotted Blaise right away. No reason to delay what had to be done.

He could almost feel a dozen pairs of eyes watching from behind as he approached the table.

Blaise stood up as soon as he spotted Neville. His expression was unreadable.

"I--uh..." Neville stammered, quickly losing his nerve.

"Took a very stupid bet?" Blaise suggested, raising one eyebrow slightly.

"How--how did you know that?" Neville felt his face flame.

"I'm a Slytherin," Blaise said, as though that explained everything.

Neville let his arms fall limply to his sides in a helpless gesture. He had nothing more to say.

Blaise did not seem put off by his silence. He simply continued to look steady at Neville, making him all the more nervous. It seemed to Neville that an eternity passed before he spoke.

"We will meet in the Great Hall," Blaise said calmly. "I don't think it would safe for you to come down to the dungeons, and I'm not climbing all those stairs."

It took Neville a full minute to understand what Blaise had just said.

"Does that mean that--that--"

"I accept your invitation," Blaise said, tilting his head in a slight nod. There was still no expression on his face or in his voice.

Neville turned around without saying a word, and began to walk back toward his own table. With every step he expected a hex to come flying, but when he reached the group of Gryffindors waiting for him, he looked over his shoulder and saw that Blaise was gone.

"What did he say?" Seamus demanded. "We couldn't hear a thing. Those blasted Ravenclaws were too loud."

Neville looked at the faces around him. Each looked disappointed; obviously they had not seen the show they had expected.

"He said yes," Neville heard himself say, and his voice sounded oddly far away.

"What?" Ron asked, frowning.

"He said, YES!" Neville repeated. Then he turned and walked away, feeling the floor roll sickeningly under his feet and seeing nothing in front of him.

He went to sleep that night still feeling as if he were in a waking dream. He brushed his teeth, changed into his pajamas, and got under the covers; all the while feeling like the world around him wasn't real, or maybe that he wasn't.

Maybe he had been hexed, after all.

Sleep was a relief, but lasted far too short a time. In the morning he still had to face the terrible mess he was in.

Throughout his ordeal, the one thing that had comforted Neville was that it would be over quickly. Whatever pain he would feel, it would end just as soon as he was brought into the infirmary. He could deal with that.

He couldn't deal with this.

Two days. He had two days before the dance.

Maybe he would get sick. Really sick; so sick that everyone would be sorry they ever teased him so cruelly. For one desperate moment, Neville considered actually trying to make himself ill; maybe drinking whatever concoction they would be mixing up in Potions that day. But with his limited understanding of potions, he would probably land in the morgue instead of the infirmary.

He pulled himself together. He had no other choice.

At least the other Gryffindors seemed to have tired of him. No one even spoke to him when he came down to the common room.

There was no chance of forgetting the fast-approaching dance, or pretending that it wasn't. Everywhere he went, Neville saw preparations going on. In the Great Hall, banners were already flying. In the corridors there were decorations and posters. And up in Gryffindor Tower it was a whirlwind of activity as every boy and girl from the third years up tried frantically to make themselves perfect for their dates.

Neville didn't see any need to prepare. He had his dress robes. He would comb his hair. Anything else would be playing a silly game with himself; pretending that he was just another boy getting ready for a dance he had been looking forward to all year.

All day he seemed to see Blaise everywhere; in the hallways between classes, in the Great Hall at meals, even when he went for a solitary walk in the gardens. For a boy Neville had not noticed for six years, Blaise certainly seemed to be everywhere.

That night he tossed and turned, not able to forget that the next day would be the last before the big event. It was Saturday, so he would have no classes, and that just made it worse because he would have nothing to distract him.

"Be quiet, Neville," Ron grumbled from the next bed. "I can't fall asleep with you making all that noise."

From then on, Neville lay very still, trying to keep the bedsprings from creaking. But his eyes didn't close until late in the night.

He was exhausted and irritable the following morning. He ignored his dorm mates, and spent the morning in the library; the only place where evidence of the upcoming dance was not too glaring. Though he tried to study, he couldn't concentrate on the words he read. After only an hour he gave up, staring out the window instead.

It just wasn't fair how everything always happened to him. Why was nothing ever certain in life? How could he prepare, and keep from looking foolish, when he could never predict how things would turn out? Even things that should have been certain, like being hexed by Slytherins if he dared to approach them with an invitation to a school dance, apparently came with no guarantees.

He skipped lunch, having lost his appetite. At dinner he only poked at his food, tasting nothing. He slept badly, tossing all night.

Morning came; Neville felt himself grow numb and cold with apprehension.

It was only a matter of time now. The dance did not officially begin until that night, but the entire day was devoted to last minute preparations.

Neville gaped at the whirlwind of activity around him; clothing flying this way and that, combs and clips strewn over tables, shoes being polished...

"Move, Neville!" someone said irritably, pushing past him.

Neville took himself to an empty corner, out of everyone's way. From there he could see the big clock, its hands moving faster than he had ever seen them move before. He thought he could hear its ominous ticking clearly across the noisy room.

"Aren't you going to get ready?" Hermione asked, pausing in front of him with a heap of gauzy material in her arms.

Neville nodded. He took one more look at the clock, mentally calculating every minute left before he had to go downstairs.

It was time to get ready.

He took out his dress robes from the bottom of his trunk. Despite having lain there for more than two years, they were clean and unwrinkled. The perfect color, too; a deep brown with a red collar and hem. He had not had the occasion to wear them until now.

He dressed in front of the mirror, combed his unruly hair, and after some consideration used some of Harry's shoe polish on his school boots.

He was as ready as he would ever be.

When the time came to follow the others to the Great Hall, Neville felt a strange calmness descend upon him. Instead of beating rapidly, his heart seemed to slow until he couldn't feel it beating at all.

Down the last flight of stairs; into the entrance hall, and suddenly Neville was melting like a puddle of pudding. His knees felt weak; blood pounded in his temples; his hands trembled; all remnants of clarity and stoicism vanished.

He slumped against the wall, letting others pass by. He barely saw the crowd of smiling, chattering couples.

After a while, he felt the panic subside. Deep breathing sometimes helped; Neville had been experiencing panic attacks for many years and had developed coping mechanisms to deal with them.

He raised his head and looked around. He didn't see Blaise anywhere.

Maybe he wouldn't show up. Maybe he --

"Neville Longbottom," a clear, dispassionate voice called.

Neville turned slowly. His eyes took in Blaise; dressed in black robes with a Slytherin green trim, his face devoid of expression.

"Hello," he mumbled, dropping his eyes.

Blaise glanced around the entrance hall, which by now was nearly empty. "Are we going to stand here all night?" he asked.

Neville shook his head, but Blaise had already turned on his heel and was walking toward the double doors. Letting go of the breath he had been holding, Neville trotted after him.

It was chaotic inside. The music was almost drowned out by the laughter and conversations. As yet, no one was dancing, and most milled around the refreshment tables.

Blaise pushed forward through the crowd, and Neville followed, trying not to lose sight of him.

They stopped when they reached the far wall, where several benches had been set up. Blaise turned around, and to Neville's surprise he was holding two glasses. He offered one to Neville.

"Er--thanks," Neville said, peering cautiously into the glass before taking a sip. It was sweet but burned his tongue slightly. He couldn't place the taste.

They sat down, sipping their drinks slowly, and both gazed out into the crowd.

"This is quite dull, isn't it?" Blaise commented in a bored tone. He didn't wait for Neville to answer. "Look at them; acting no different than they do every day in the courtyard." He paused, taking another sip. "I wasn't going to come."

"Me neither," Neville said softly.

Blaise glanced at him, his expression still one of boredom, but said nothing.

The music became louder. A few couples straggled out onto the dance floor.

"Come on," Blaise said, finishing off his drink and standing up.

Noticing the uncertain expression on Neville's face, a small frown pulled down the corners of his mouth. "This is what we came here for, is it not?"

Neville gulped down the rest of his drink and scrambled off the bench. He swayed slightly, feeling suddenly lightheaded, but Blaise had taken him by the arm and was steering him toward the center of the Hall.

They began to dance, and Neville concentrated on not stepping on Blaise's feet.

As they turned endless circles over the dance floor, Neville continued to feel more and more giddy. The room was spinning wildly, and all the lights and colors appeared twice as bright. Even Blaise's eyes, gazing into his, seemed impossibly blue and shiny.

To his surprise, he was having a good time. He could feel the pulse of the music vibrating through his body, and Blaise's hands on his shoulder and waist radiated heat and tingles.

He bumped into someone behind him. Turning, he saw a familiar face framed by hair that seemed to be on fire.

"Sorry!" he said, laughing.

Ron gave him an odd look. "What's the matter with you?"

But Neville couldn't answer; he was still laughing, his whole body shaking with it.

Blaise had withdrawn his arms, and was staring at Neville with his head tilted to one side.

"You need some air," he said when a minute passed and Neville still didn't calm down. He began to pull him toward the exit.

Still breathless, Neville allowed himself to be pulled along like a rag doll. He didn't care where they went; anywhere was fine. What a night! Everything was so bright!

They left the castle through the back entrance, and Neville looked around in awe. The gardens appeared surreal in the twilight; everything blurred and greener than ever before.

"This way," Blaise said, pulling him around the hedges. "Sit down."

They had reached a bench, and Blaise deposited Neville onto it. Promptly, Neville leaned over and threw up violently into the bushes.

Blaise handed him a handkerchief, a disgusted look on his face. "For Merlin's sake, what is the matter with you?"

Neville sat up shakily, wiping his mouth. "I don't know," he said in a tremulous voice. Then his stomach heaved, and he ducked his head again.

"I'll bring you a glass of water," Blaise said with exasperation. He disappeared back inside the castle.

Neville took a few deep breaths, trying to calm his rolling stomach. Something was really wrong with him.

"Here." Blaise had come back with the water.

Neville washed out his mouth, then drank. He felt slightly better. The cold evening air filled his lungs, clearing his head quickly.

"Did you... put something in my drink?" he asked suspiciously.

Blaise was standing a few feet from him, arms folded over his chest.

"Good grief, it was hardly anything," he said, rolling his eyes. "How was I supposed to know --"

Neville had gotten up, though shakily. He clenched his fists, anger welling up inside him.

"Why did you do that?" he demanded.

Blaise turned a full Slytherin glare on him. "I didn't think you would be any fun otherwise; mouse that you are," he sneered.

Neville's mouth fell open. He shut it again quickly, gritting his teeth. He turned on his heel and began to walk as fast as he could on his unsteady legs back toward the castle.

He didn't get far.

"Longbottom -- Neville! Wait!"

Neville halted, but didn't turn around.

A long minute passed with no sound from behind him. Then a very grudging voice said, "All right, maybe that wasn't a nice thing to do."

Neville made no indication that he heard, but neither did he walk away. Another minute passed.

"You're going to make me apologize, aren't you!" Blaise demanded angrily. "Well, fine! I --"

Neville waited. There was a very long silence.

"I'm sorry," came a very low, very sullen apology.

Neville waited a little while longer before turning around, though he couldn't explain why he didn't keep walking straight back into the castle and up the stairs all the way to Gryffindor Tower.

The two looked at each other; Blaise still looking sullen and Neville suspicious.

"Fine," Neville said to break the awkward silence. "Lets go back inside."

This time, it was Blaise trailing after Neville as they returned to the Hall.

"Do you want to dance again?" Blaise asked him.

"No," Neville said shortly, "I don't feel up to it." And he plopped down on the nearest bench near the refreshment tables.

Blaise remained standing.

The dance appeared to be in full swing. Neville saw some of his dorm mates dancing with their dates, looking like they were enjoying themselves.

Blaise sat down next to him. "So, what --"

"On second thought," Neville interrupted, getting up, "I do want to dance."

They danced for a few minutes before the song ended. Neville had to admit that he liked it; the liquor had not been the only cause of his enjoyment the previous time.

Still, he kept a cautious eye on Blaise, especially when they pushed through the crowd to help themselves to food and punch.

They sat down again, and began to eat.

"Why did you accept?" Neville blurted out suddenly.

Blaise froze with a piece of raspberry tart halfway to his mouth. "Because I didn't want to spend the night in the dungeons while everyone else was out having a good time."

"I thought you said you hadn't planned to come?"

"That was when I didn't think there was anyone I could go with," Blaise said irritably. "You of all people should know. Was there anyone you could have gone with; had you wanted to?"

"No," Neville admitted. "But I --"

He was interrupted by the clock striking eleven. The dance was officially over.

Neville and Blaise were caught up in the crowd of people pushing toward the exit. They didn't have a chance to say anything more to each other until they were standing in the entrance hall and the crowd had thinned out as students headed for their common rooms.

The way Blaise was looking at him, head bowed slightly and peering from underneath his eyebrows, Neville expected him to say he was sorry he ever accepted Neville's invitation.

Instead, he said, "Next Hogsmeade weekend; do you want to meet me somewhere?"

Neville turned a mental somersault. The next Hogsmeade weekend was less than two weeks away. And Blaise wanted to --

"You want to go out with me again? On a date?" he asked incredulously.

"Why wouldn't I?" Blaise asked in a bored tone, as though it was matter-of-fact that he should want to.

"I thought you said I was a mouse," Neville pointed out. He couldn't shake the memory of Blaise's cutting words earlier that night.

"Well, you're... not," Blaise said, crossing his arms over his chest and looking not at Neville but at the floor.

Neville stared at him. He wasn't sure what he wanted to do. The evening had not exactly gone smoothly, but despite that, he had to admit that he'd had a good time.

"All right," he gave in, "I'll go with you."

Blaise looked up suspiciously. "Really?"

"As long as you don't spike the butterbeer," Neville said, shrugging.

For a split second, a glare cut across Blaise's features, but the next moment his face was expressionless again. "I will meet you at the Three Broomsticks."

Then, before Neville could say another word, Blaise turned and headed down the stairs; leaving Neville standing in the entrance hall, frowning after him.

Then he heard it; Blaise calling from the bottom of the staircase in a very grudging voice, "Good night."

Neville shook his head, wondering for the thousandth time how he always managed to get himself into these situations. 


End file.
